


moonrise

by lionsenpai



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Glove Kink, if it wasnt clear this is DEFINITELY a fantasy lmaoooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionsenpai/pseuds/lionsenpai
Summary: Three months ago, you wouldn’t have thought it possible for someone to keep up with you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> wow i forgot to post this forever ago??? anyway, give it for rarepair hell ft. raven 'fantasizes about the woman tracking her down' branwen and winter 'hunts and obtains the biggest monsters she can find' schnee

Your meeting is a feat of the moon, red as blood and swollen with its proximity.

It’s a witching moon, a beast’s moon, drawing all the predators with endless rows of teeth from their dank hollows. Whole flocks of Grimm surface, raising their heads and setting empty eyes on the miles of craters, the pieces once whole. It stirs old instincts in them, ancient and irresistible as the changing tides.

You are no different. You’ve shed etiquette so many times before, a snake shedding skin to grow bigger, your fangs growing with you. There’s only traces of humanity left to mark you, buried deep beneath the same instincts which drive the Grimm.

But as beasts rise, so too do the hunters. This is a hunter’s moon as well.

Which is why you find each other, dancing among shadows in the grove of a war-torn forest. Your hunter carries herself with a soldier’s stature, but there’s a hunger in her, dark as these old woods. She doesn’t know restraint. She doesn’t know kindness.

You like that.

Winter sheathes her sword in the same moment that yours goes spinning across the grass, disappearing where human eyes cannot see. You track it perfectly, straightening from a crouch that feels natural, and she meets your empty gaze through the slits in your bone mask, striding forward fearlessly until she’s right before you.

Three months ago, you wouldn’t have thought it possible for someone to keep up with you. Owing this to the moon’s distraction would be a disservice to her tenacity, so you don’t.

With one hand on the hilt of her sword, she lifts the other to your mask, leather gloves straining against her grip. The bone plate has suffered greater pains than her, but never so much indifference.

She rips it from your face and tosses it after your sword, her glove caressing your jawline before harsh fingers squeeze tight.

“Raven Branwen.”

Soft grass beneath your knees does nothing to temper the accusation in Winter’s tone. Rather than surprise at how quickly you buckle, Winter shows only keen understanding, like she’s mapped this out a thousand times and found your current positions inevitable. Her thumb brushes across your lower lip, and you raise your head.

Pupils blown wide as the moon stare down at you, and your heart picks up, a rumble of excitement leaving your throat in lieu of words. Her hand drops to your pulse to strangle the sound.

The leather is still warm from Dust use. Winter says, “They said you were a phantom.”

It’s been too long since you’ve felt the chaos abate at the hands of another.

Winter’s hands tether nightmares and leash demons, the black leather as effective as any collar. It rasps along your neck, finds rough purchase over your jaw, and when you close your eyes and bow your head to welcome it as one welcomes an old friend, the clarity of it against your lips quiets your feral heart.

For the moment.

Winter’s eyes weigh upon you, make you want to drop lower, to taste the curve of her boot with your tongue, but her hand keeps you in place. Keeps you right where she wants you.

She should fear you. She should fear the calamity you wield in bare hands.

Instead, Winter pulls you in close, command instilled in meat and marrow. It soothes the wildest parts of you, makes you remember: hunting dogs yield to a strong hand, and hers is the strongest you’ve ever encountered.

She sees your power, sees the shorn metal claws and bone-white mask which suit you more than speech or sword, and thinks not of what you could do to her, but what she could make of you. She swallows evil whole, makes it real deep within her and then never lets go.

“You’re no dead woman. You can’t chase ghosts, but any huntress can catch monsters.” You kiss the flesh between her thumb and fingers, desperate to taste her, taste the black at the core of her. In the silver of her belt buckle, you almost don’t recognize the red eyes staring back at you, the servile haze within. “And l caught you.”

By the nose. By the throat.  

You murmur a response against her hand, lips brushing leather and tasting raw Dust and power, but it’s muffled, words blending together. Winter raises her hand to your hair, yanking it back and forcing you to meet her gaze again. She’s stolen souls with those eyes, caught them and possessed them, made them hers.

You wish she could do the same to you. You wish she could make it stick.

“Prove it,” you say, barely human, every syllable better suited to snarls.

Leather-clad fingers dig in, your short bangs held mercilessly between them. Her expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t waver in the slightest; you’re beginning to think she expected even this.

Her free hand releases the hilt of her sword, trailing to the buckle of her trousers. She moves slowly, not for care or caution, but because she wants you to wait, wants you at her mercy, little though she has. She wants you to look as she claims you, wants you to feel the newly polished leather of her gloves against the most vulnerable parts of you.

White pants sag around pale hips, and she pulls you forward, the night fading but for the taste of her skin beneath your tongue, the powerful muscles beneath your nails as you rake them down her thighs. The world quiets, your mind quiets, and the only thing you hear is the soft gasps as you delve into her, never allowed to look away.

Winter’s eyes don’t dull. They draw you in and refuse release - at least, not until she’s had hers.

An uneven exchange - your soul for her satisfaction - but you can’t complain as she rucks down against you, directing with sharp jerks of your hair. Whether she thinks she can obtain you like this doesn’t matter. You taste slick heat and wonder how long until your escape, until the unending days of stalking Remnant return, until the two of you come together again.

You can tell already: she’s too stubborn to give up.

Leather trails over your temple, her other hand sliding into wild, dark curls, and the noise of your thoughts turn to pleasant static. It’s the fleeting salve to your nature: fingers twining in your hair, the friction of leather over your scalp, her quiet, clipped moans. Beasts roam until they’re brought to heel, and this moment feels like steady ground.

It won’t last. But neither will Winter, desperation lining every jerk of her hips.

You dare to touch her in more than she demands, nails scorching trails up her inner thighs until they find the crux of her desire. Winter rocks down to take two fingers up to the knuckle, hissing out a command for more. You add another even though you know it will never be enough. She won’t be satisfied until she’s taken all of you.

Winter’s knees tremble and you close your eyes, knowing she’s close. You want to tell her it won’t last, that she’ll never hold you. Not while the itch that’s burrowed deep inside your skull still lives. It drove you to the forests to begin with, and not even Winter’s power is enough to contain you forever.

But for now - while the moon still bleeds the sky a ruddy brown - you let the world narrow to her, to the heady taste on your tongue, the hands in your hair cutting away every unnecessary thing.

Winter occupies your every attention as she breaks, tipping her head back like a beast singing praises to the moon, but you know, deep in the hollow organ in your hollow chest, that it is the only part of you she will ever own.


End file.
